REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way ,I love writing them all!)
Tom Blyth Masterlist
A/N:ok so… I was literally re-watching The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes and like… TOM BLYTH??? excuse me??? my heart cannot. so then I lowkey went down the rabbit hole rereading like 90% of the fics with him, got stuck on TikTok watching edits for HOURS, and somehow here I am writing for him again. if you have any ideas, prompts, or things you want to see me write
The flash of cameras was constant, relentless. Y/N adjusted the strap of their dress, trying to ignore the throng of photographers screaming Tom’s name.
“You look… amazing,” Tom said, sidling up with his usual smirk. His hand brushed theirs,a touch that was supposed to be staged, casual, nothing more. But the warmth lingered longer than necessary.
Y/N rolled their eyes. “You think that’s going to distract them from the obvious fact that we’re a PR stunt?”
Tom grinned. “Maybe. Or maybe it’ll make them ship us even harder.”
Y/N groaned. “Ship us? We’re not a couple, Tom. This is fake dating, remember?”
“Fake dating, sure,” he murmured, leaning in close, voice low. “But… I’m good at faking things. Sometimes I wonder if I’m also good at faking feelings.”
Y/N froze. “What was that supposed to mean?”
Tom raised an innocent brow, leaning back just enough to hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing. Just… maybe these staged kisses aren’t as fake as they seem.”
Y/N sighed, shaking their head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are, holding my hand for the cameras.”
They posed, smiled, waved, and pretended. But when the photographers’ flashes died down, the air between them felt different,charged, almost electric.
Later, in the quiet of Tom’s dressing room, Y/N sank onto the couch, running a hand through their hair. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“Crazy enough to make fake dating feel… real?” Tom asked, sitting beside them. He nudged their shoulder gently. “Look, Y/N, I didn’t mean to… you know. Make it feel real. But it did.”
Y/N stared at him, heart hammering. “You’re saying it’s… not fake for you?”
Tom laughed softly, the sound low and teasing. “Not for me. I mean… it was supposed to be fake, right? But now… I don’t know. Maybe I’m enjoying it too much.”
Y/N tilted their head, studying him. “You’re enjoying it way too much.”
He leaned closer, whispering, “Maybe because I like you. Maybe because I’ve liked you longer than I realized. And maybe… I’m tired of pretending.”
Y/N’s breath caught. “Wait… are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” Tom said, eyes locking on theirs. “So… maybe we stop faking it. Maybe we see where this goes. No cameras, no scripts. Just… us.”
Y/N hesitated, heart racing, before leaning forward. “You know this could be a disaster.”
Tom smirked, brushing a strand of hair from their face. “Disasters are fun.”
And with that, Y/N laughed, their lips meeting his in a kiss that wasn’t staged, wasn’t for the cameras. Real. Finally real.
The following days were a whirlwind. Every red carpet, every gala, every carefully posed photo brought them closer. The more they pretended for the world, the more their private moments became charged with laughter, teasing, and stolen touches. Y/N found themselves laughing at Tom’s ridiculous antics, like when he dramatically swooped them into a dance move during a group photo, spinning them nearly into the nearest photographer, only to grin sheepishly as if nothing happened.
“I almost broke your ankle!” Y/N exclaimed, brushing off imaginary dust.
“You’re exaggerating,” Tom said, shrugging. “A little chaos keeps life interesting.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Y/N muttered, but the way their lips curved into a smile betrayed their amusement.
Backstage, the banter continued. “You know,” Y/N began, leaning against a table while Tom balanced on the edge of a chair, “this fake dating thing is getting out of control.”
“In what way?” he asked, pretending to look innocent while his eyes sparkled with mischief.
Y/N groaned. “Every time we pretend, I… I don’t know. I start forgetting what’s pretend and what’s real.”
Tom grinned and crouched to meet their gaze. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Pretending is supposed to be fun. But I’ve got to admit… it’s dangerous when it starts feeling real.”
Their laughter echoed, soft and private amid the chaos of the crew bustling around them. Tom reached for their hand, a casual gesture that made Y/N’s heart stutter, and squeezed it gently. “You feel it too, right?”
“I… maybe,” Y/N whispered, caught between denial and admission.
Tom leaned in, brushing their hair behind their ear, his touch gentle. “Because I can’t stop feeling it. And I don’t want to.”
The next day brought interviews. Paparazzi asked the same questions over and over: “Are you two dating?” “How did your relationship start?” “Are you happy together?” Y/N learned quickly to keep a straight face. Tom, however, delighted in the teasing.
“Tell them,” he whispered during a pause in the interview, “that you’ve fallen for me.”
Y/N elbowed him lightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous, yes, but charming too,” he said, giving a wink that made Y/N’s heart skip.
Every evening, after the interviews and photoshoots, they would collapse in exhaustion, usually tangled together on whichever couch or bed was available. The small touches, the quiet laughter, the whispered confessions, made the boundaries blur. They shared late-night pizza boxes and ridiculous online videos, arguing over who had the worst taste in memes but laughing so hard it hurt.
One evening, Y/N caught Tom scrolling through his phone, a sheepish grin on his face. “What are you looking at?”
“Just… fan comments,” he admitted, pretending to be casual. “People are… rooting for us. I think they want us to be real more than we do.”
Y/N smirked. “Maybe they’re onto us.”
“They’ll never know the half of it,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Because the real part… is just between us.”
And it was. In the quiet moments, the ones without cameras, scripts, or the world watching, they allowed themselves to feel everything,every laugh, every touch, every glance that lingered too long.
The turning point came unexpectedly. They were attending a gala together, pretending to hold hands for the photographers, when a group of young fans approached. One shyly asked for a selfie, and Y/N found themselves laughing as Tom exaggeratedly posed, pulling Y/N close. In that instant, something unspoken passed between them,a recognition that pretending was no longer necessary.
Later, as they walked alone down a quiet city street, Y/N glanced at Tom. “You know, this whole fake dating thing has been… confusing.”
“Confusing good or confusing bad?” Tom asked, teasing as always, but there was a softness in his gaze that made Y/N’s stomach flutter.
“Confusing good,” Y/N admitted.
Tom smiled, slipping an arm around their shoulder, holding them close. “Because we’ve been pretending for everyone else, but… we don’t have to pretend for each other.”
Y/N’s breath caught. “You mean,”
“Exactly,” he said, leaning down, his lips brushing theirs in a soft, lingering kiss. “No cameras. No scripts. Just us.”
The rest of the night passed in a blur of laughter, whispered secrets, and tentative touches. Y/N found themselves drawn to Tom in ways they hadn’t anticipated. His teasing grin, the way he laughed at their jokes, the way he reached for them when no one was watching,it all made the world outside fade away.
Over the next few weeks, their relationship blossomed. Every day on set was a delicate dance of pretending for the public while slowly falling for each other in private. They shared breakfasts, long walks, and late-night phone calls that stretched until dawn. Tom would send ridiculous messages, and Y/N would respond with mock irritation, only to melt at his charm moments later.
One afternoon, while reviewing wardrobe options for an upcoming photoshoot, Tom leaned against the doorway, watching Y/N debate over a jacket. “You’re adorable when you overthink,” he said softly, not caring if anyone else heard.
Y/N spun around, cheeks flushed. “I am not adorable.”
“You are,” Tom insisted, stepping closer. “And it’s dangerous because every time I see you like this, I… I can’t stop thinking about kissing you.”
Y/N swallowed hard, heart racing. “Maybe you shouldn’t think about it, then.”
“Or maybe I should,” he murmured, leaning in just enough that Y/N could feel his breath. “Because every time I don’t, it’s worse than pretending.”
The weeks rolled on, filled with interviews, galas, photoshoots, and late-night confessions. What had begun as a joke, a publicity stunt, had grown into something real, undeniable, and utterly consuming.
Finally, during an awards ceremony, when they stood together on the stage holding a trophy for their film, Tom leaned in, whispering in Y/N’s ear, “So… ready to stop pretending?”
Y/N looked into his eyes, the city lights reflecting in the distance, and smiled. “Absolutely.”
Tom’s hand tightened around theirs as he pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to their lips. No cameras. No pretending. Just them, finally real, finally together, and entirely impossible to ignore.
And from that moment, everything changed.
They laughed, they teased, they loved,messy, imperfect, but completely theirs. No flash, no paparazzi, no script could capture what they had. And they didn’t need them to.
The fake dating had ended. The real love had begun.
summary: fans find out tom’s girlfriend has an old youtube channel where she reviewed the ballad of songbirds and snakes (and she definitely manifested her life)
an: the way i thought about this idea and quickly wrote it down so i didn’t forget it. i used to have an app that made those fake tweets but i’m just tired to make fake profiles 😭 maybe i’ll change it later idk
for the purpose of this imagine, let’s pretend tbosas book was published between 2017-2019
liked by zeglerslove, 444_bri and 35,377 others
tomblythxsnow apparently tom’s girlfriend has an old youtube channel where she reviews books and she reviewed the ballad of songbirds and snakes and she literally manifested her future 😭
lucymygf WHATTT WHATS HER CHANNEL NAME
tomblythxsnow it’s yn’s book corner. she hasn’t posted since 2019 ngl i need her to review a little life because that book destroyed me
nat76_ omg i used to watch her videos!! i’m still subscribed to her 😭 i remember only buying and reading the books she liked because i wanted to be her so bad
j4ckaszlol “if someone ever makes a movie adaptation of this book and casts someone attractive to play snow then i am sorry for the person i become” REALLLLL
graybairdsmockingjay dude the part where she said “i’m calling it now whoever plays young snow will be my boyfriend. movie studios always cast someone attractive as the younger version of a character!” MY JAW DROPPED SHE NEEDS TO TELL ME HER WAYS
“guess what rachel just sent me.” you heard tom say when he arrived to your shared apartment.
“wedding invitations?!” you gasped as you almost stood up from the sofa since you were watching reruns of criminal minds, but tom stopped you.
“no, it’s better!” tom sat beside you and showed you his phone. “why didn’t you tell me you had a youtube channel?” on his phone screen was your review of the ballad of songbirds and snakes, which had become a very popular video over the past couple of days.
you hid your face with a pillow and groaned. “don’t remind me. i just wanted to talk about my books and my family didn’t care. don’t watch it! it’s embarrassing!”
“i think it’s cute. aw look, your dog made a cameo!” he pointed at your old dog you used to have that walked into the frame.
“indi! no, come sit right here. oh . . . and she’s walking away. okay, anyways.” your younger self said in the video
“indi? why Indi?” tom asked you even though you were still hiding from embarrassment.
“after indiana jones. my dad and i loved those movies and he gifted me indi as a birthday present.” you confessed.
“love, don’t be embarrassed. i think it’s cute that you manifested your life according to the comments on instagram,” tom paused the video then cuddled up to you. “i won’t watch it if you don’t want me to.”
“it’s fine, i just didn’t think anyone would find it. we can watch it together.” you uncovered yourself and sat down properly to watch the video with tom. before he pressed the play button and together you watch your younger self review the book.
“i’ve read all the hunger games books at least four times and this one did not disappoint. but i do hope whoever ends up being cast as young snow is someone hot. i’m sorry it’s the rules! and they will be my boyfriend, i’m calling dibs.”
tom smirked at you. “if only younger you could see you now.”
“she would definitely think ‘wow, how did we pull this beautiful man?’ then be confused as to why the hunger games and fnaf is trending in 2023.”
liked by tomblyth, rachelzegler and 1,377,389 others
ynlovesbooks told ya. love you tomblyth ❤️
rachelzegler she is THAT girl
ynlovesbooks no u
everdeenx12 bestie he’s EVIL
ynlovesbooks he’s a walking red flag but my favorite color is red 😍
chamaletproblems pls tell me how you did this
ynlovesbooks i figured out who they were casting and kept him hostage until he agreed to be my bf
Surviving Juilliard, the NYC indie scene, and the agonizingly slow burn of Tom Blyth being hopelessly in love with you while you’re completely oblivious.
Warnings : yearning!Tom blyth, oblivious!reader (she claims she loves him as a friend and as a brother all her and his friends have been shipping them since day 1 but it takes years for her to finally let down her walls reader has difficulty being vulnerable with ppl due to past trauma will be discussed another time) friendzoned!Tom blyth
No smut just yearning
Pretext
You’re eighteen, freshly arrived from Philly with nothing but a fierce protective streak for your family back home, a wardrobe of "gaudy chic" thrifting masterpieces. To the rest of Juilliard, you’re an enigma—ex athlete and cheerleader confident fierce extroverted and not afraid to stand up to anyone they’re intimidated by you. To Tom Blyth, you are the center of the universe. For four years, you run in the same elite circles, getting caught in grainy paparazzi photos with Lily-Rose Depp and hanging out with Maya Hawke’s crowd. The internet is already building a Tumblr cult following around you as NYC's mysterious new "It Girl," completely unaware that behind closed doors, Hollywood's future golden boy is actively suffocating under the weight of his own unrequited love for you, constantly getting caught staring by everyone—except you.
Moments Tom Blyth gets caught staring at you
The rain in October of 2017 was relentless, turning the Lincoln Center campus into a blur of grey concrete and wet umbrellas. Inside one of Juilliard’s empty, high-ceilinged rehearsal rooms, the air was warm and smelled faintly of wood polish and steam radiators. You were on the floor, completely lost in your own world. Your athletic frame was arched backward into a deep, flexible bridge on the hardwood floor, a habit from your varsity cheerleading days back in Philly. You were wearing a tight-fitting, vintage black leotard and thick wool leg warmers, your breathing heavy and rhythmic as you focused on stretching out your muscles after a brutal three-hour movement class.
In the doorway, Tom froze. He was holding two cardboard cups of cheap bodega coffee—black for him, exactly how you liked it for you—but the moment his eyes landed on you, his entire body went rigid. He didn’t step inside. He just stood there, spellbound, his gaze tracking the sharp line of your waist, the curve of your hip, and the way the overhead fluorescent lights caught the cluster of heavy, oversized ruby rings on your fingers. He was staring with a kind of raw, quiet reverence that made him look completely defenseless.
A sharp snap of fingers right in front of his nose broke the spell.
"Close your mouth, Blyth. You’re drooling on the fair-trade roast," Maya Hawke murmured, leaning past his shoulder with a sharp, knowing smirk. Tom snapped his head around, his ears turning a furious, burning shade of crimson as he scrambled to pull his composure together. "I was just... waiting for her to finish her set. Shut up, Hawke," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave as he hurriedly stepped into the room to hand you your coffee, desperately praying you hadn't seen the look in his eyes.
But that look never really went away; it just moved to different rooms. A few months later, the setting shifted to a cramped, sweaty house party in a Brooklyn loft. The bass from the speakers was vibrating through the floorboards, and you were right in the thick of it. You had unearthed a tight, emerald-green vintage slip dress from a thrift bin downtown that hugged every single one of your proportions perfectly. You were laughing, letting loose, your hands thrown up in the air as you danced with Maya, your huge chunky rings flashing like warning lights under the strobe effects.
Across the room, Tom was backed up against a brick wall, a lukewarm beer forgotten in his hand. Michael Braugher was midway through a story about their classical text class, but Tom wasn't hearing a single syllable. His eyes were entirely locked onto the fluid, effortless movement of your hips. Michael paused, tracking Tom’s line of sight, and nudged him hard in the ribs with his elbow. "Man, you haven't blinked in three minutes. If you look at her any harder, you're going to set that green dress on fire."
Tom took a sudden, aggressive gulp of his beer, his teeth coming together so hard the muscle in his jaw thunned violently. "She’s just having fun," he grumbled, his knuckles turning white around the glass bottle. "New York guys are vultures. I'm just keeping an eye out."
"Right," Michael chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "A total brotherly eye. Keep telling yourself that, mate."
As if on cue, the "vultures" arrived. A guy from NYU’s film department slid into your space, shouting something over the music to make you laugh. He was smooth, and you—being naturally popular and friendly—smiled back, completely missing the predatory way his eyes raked over you. But then the guy’s hand dropped, sliding smoothly onto the small of your waist.
From across the room, Tom’s entire demeanor shifted from passive pining to dangerous territorial instinct. His jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. Without a single word to Michael, he dropped his beer on a nearby table and navigated the crowded floor like a missile. Before the guy could even lean closer to your ear, Tom’s long arm came over your shoulder, gripping you firmly and pulling your smaller frame securely against his side.
“Hey, love," Tom’s voice cut through the noise, deep and laced with a cold, protective British steel that made the NYU guy instantly freeze. Tom didn't look at the guy; he just stared down at him with a chilling, unblinking authority until the guy slowly lifted his hand off your waist and backed away into the crowd. You just blinked up at Tom, completely oblivious, laughing as you adjusted your heavy rings. "Took you long enough, Tommy. I was about to make him buy me a slice of pizza."
He could protect you from the vultures at parties, but the absolute breaking point came the night of the Group 49 formal after-party. You had celebrated a massive showcase, and for the first time since leaving Philly, you let your guard down and drank way too much cheap tequila on an empty stomach. By 2:00 AM, you were stumbling on the New York sidewalk, your balance entirely shot.
Tom didn't hesitate. He hoisted you up against his side, practically carrying your weight as he hailed a yellow cab. Throughout the entire ride through the city lights, you were completely out of it, your head lolling onto his broad shoulder, resting right against his chest. Tom wrapped his arms around you securely, pulling you into him. With the city noise muffled outside, he could hear the frantic, terrifyingly loud thudding of his own heart beating against his ribs like a trapped bird. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of your hair, desperately forcing his feelings down, reminding himself to just be the protector you needed.
When the cab pulled up to your building, he carried you up the three flights of stairs to your apartment. He unlocked the door, carried you inside, and laid you down gently beneath your covers. With practiced care, he sat on the edge of the mattress, slid your vintage heels off your feet, and began gently sliding the heavy ruby rings off your fingers one by one, setting them safely on the nightstand so they wouldn't hurt you while you slept.
As he stood up to quietly slip out into the night, your hand shot out from under the blanket, catching him by the sleeve. You pulled him down, your eyes half-closed and heavy with sleep, and planted a soft, lingering, affectionate peck right on his cheek. "Thanks, Tommy," you mumbled sleepily, your accent thick and slurred as a soft smile touched your lips. "You're the best. Seriously... don't know what I'd do without my big brother looking out for me in this crazy city."
Tom froze. The physical touch of your lips on his skin sent a jolt straight through him, but the word brother felt like a violent, physical fist straight to his gut. It knocked the wind right out of him. He forced a tight, strained smile onto his face, his heart fracturing into a million pieces in the dim apartment light. He reached out, gently patting the top of your head as he stepped back into the shadows of your doorway. "Anytime, love," he whispered, his voice cracking just a fraction. "Sleep well."
He closed the door softly behind him and walked down into the freezing New York night, the word echoing in his skull. But no matter how much it hurt, he couldn't stay away.
The quietest, most agonizing moment came months later, during a weekend hangout at an apartment downtown with Florence Pugh and the rest of the indie crowd. The exhaustion of your double shifts at the diner and grueling rehearsal schedules finally caught up to you. While the British crowd sat around drinking wine and talking shop, you curled up on the edge of a velvet sofa, your head resting on a throw pillow, and drifted into a dead sleep.
Tom immediately moved. He didn't stay on the chairs; he sat straight down on the hardwood floor right beside the couch, his back against the cushions, treating himself like a human shield between you and the rest of the noisy room. For nearly an hour, he just watched you sleep. The harshness in his face completely melted away, replaced by an expression of such agonizing longing it was almost tragic. He slowly reached his hand up, his fingers hovering barely a millimeter away from your face, wanting so desperately to brush a stray, dark curl away from your forehead. But he stopped himself, his hand trembling slightly in mid-air before he dropped it back to his lap, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to bury those feelings all over again.
Florence walked into the room to refill her glass, stopping short when she caught the pure, unfiltered devotion written all over Tom’s face. She let out a soft, sad sigh, leaning against the doorframe.
“You're torturing yourself, Tom," Florence whispered, her voice full of pity. "Just tell her. Look at how you look at her."
Tom swallowed hard, his throat tight as he kept his eyes anchored to your sleeping face, completely trapped in a prison of his own making. "I can't, Flo," he murmured, his British accent thick and heavy with exhaustion. "She’s had to fight for everything her whole life. She needs a safe space in this city where someone doesn't want something from her. She needs a friend she can actually trust. I’d rather have her like this forever than risk losing her completely."
important note: if you don't like rpf (or fanfic about real people), please just scroll past. don't be rude in the reblogs or tags or I will just block you. it costs zero dollars to mind your business and keep scrolling. tom will literally never see this. I will never send it to him. therefore, no one is getting harmed by this. rpf is written by many about many real people and has been for a long time. if you'd like to file a complaint, I'd love to see you say that writing rpf is weird to the Hamilton fandom, the Billy the Kid fandom, the Elvis/ Queen/ Greta Van Fleet/ other bands and singers fandoms, (especially the k pop fandom. I pray you survive if you do.) etc etc. basically, just ignore this if you don't wanna see it. have a good day (:
⌯ pairing: tom blyth / fem!reader
⌯ warnings: mentions of alcohol, consumption of alcohol, mentions of smoking, reader smokes but it isn't explicitly described (can be an ignored detail), eventual smut, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (please protect yourself with strangers), oral sex (f receiving), nipple play, cum eating, fluff if you squint
⌯ word count: 3454
⌯ summary: at your friend's christmas party, you meet tom blyth and there's a strong connection off the bat. after a little too much to drink and a night spent talking, the two of you have an intimate christmas eve together. (based on those nights by bastille.)
⌯ author’s note: I've been so busy that I haven't been able to finish this until today lol and it took ages because I kept getting distracted ((: anyway!! merry christmas and happy hanukkah, I hope everyone enjoys this (: if you don't pls keep it to yourself
You’re nursing a glass of half-sipped champagne, trying your best to pay attention to what your friend is saying to you through the pounding music. Being social with them is the least you can do, considering this is their holiday party you’re attending. And they’ve supplied the alcohol that you’ve helped yourself to all night. This is one reason why you can’t focus very well, but there’s another reason, too. You swear you feel eyes from somewhere in the apartment searing into the back of your head. At first, it wasn’t a big deal. But now it’s almost as if you’re scared to move in case someone is watching. Still listening to your friend, you realize you’re unable to look around to find the source. So you push away the sensation the best you can for now. A mutual friend waves at you from across the room where the makeshift bar is. Downing the rest of your champagne, you bid the friend you’re conversing with a quick goodbye for the time being. Hurrying to your friend who beckoned you over, you look at them with a raised brow when their face scrunches up into a giddy smile.
“Why do you look like that?” you ask, carefully eyeballing them.
Your friend chuckles at you, leaning into your ear, “There’s a hot guy back there who has been eyeing you for quite some time.”
Your face contorts into realization. So that’s why you’ve been feeling eyes burning into you. You hesitantly turn around, hoping you aren’t too blatantly obvious in finding who is staring. However, at this point in the night, you aren’t entirely graceful by any means. Your eyes catch onto a brunette man almost immediately, like you’re drawn to one another somehow. The man glances down at his drink before letting his eyes shoot back up to yours, his determined gaze sending goosebumps across your skin. Your friend has been too busy making you a drink to notice the tension but still manages to switch out your empty glass with a full one despite your daze.
“I’ll be right back,” you say just loud enough for your friend to hear over the song blaring through the speakers.
With the alcohol burning in your system, the atmosphere of the apartment seems otherworldly. It’s a fairly glitzy party, so you’re dressed for the occasion. Your outfit highlights your best features, allowing you to have an air of confidence. A kind of confidence you don’t usually carry. The alcohol certainly helps with that. The shimmery lighting bouncing off the walls gives off an ethereal vibe to the apartment. The dim glimmer of the room casts the shadow of the brunette man’s eyelashes onto his cheekbones. The closer you get, the more you notice about him. His aquiline nose, the contour of facial hair on his face, the tasteful and subtle golden hoop in his left ear. You see a small smile stretch across his lips as you approach him.
“I am so sorry if I’m coming off as creepy,” he shouts over the music, laughing to himself, “I promise I don’t mean to. You’re just really attractive.”
You take a moment to let your eyes take in his form as discreetly as possible, noticing his towering height and lean physique. Now that you’re close enough to properly see his face, you note that his eyes shine a hauntingly beautiful shade of icy blue. He takes a moment to study your face as well, waiting with bated breath for your response.
“That means a lot coming from someone who is also attractive. And I thought I felt someone staring,” you jokingly smile at him around a sip of your drink.
“Sorry about that,” the man rubs the back of his neck nervously, “I just never know how to approach without being awkward.”
Butterflies flutter in your stomach at the heavy weight of the brunette’s eyes on yours, your drink burning away any nervousness that had previously lingered.
“I get it,” you match his smile that has yet to wipe off his face, “I’m not the type to come up to someone I find cute. But…” you trail off, taking in the man’s attractiveness, “There’s something about you I can’t put my finger on.”
“Well,” he chuckles at you, bringing his glass to his lips before hesitating, “You’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Oh really?’ you raise your eyebrows, a playful tinge to your voice, “How’s that?”
“Do you smoke?” the man asks.
“Only when I’m drinking,” you chide.
The two of you weave around the other party-goers toward the fire escape, and you snatch the bottle of something from your friend’s hand while passing the bar on the way out. After clambering from the window behind the tall man, who effortlessly climbed out, you take his outstretched hand. Planting your feet on the landing, you watch as the man fishes out a pack of cigarettes and a pack of matches from his back pocket. He looks up at you expectantly, patting the spot on the metal grating next to him.
“I don’t bite,” he jokes, “Not hard, anyway.”
You bite back a snort but sit down anyway. You take a swig of the clear liquid in the bottle you took before offering it to the man with a sour face. He’s in the process of lighting up, the cigarette hanging between his lips casually as he holds a lit match to the end. You watch him do this, and something stirs inside you. He takes a drag before handing the cigarette to you and taking the bottle from your hand.
“You smoke a lot?” you ask him before taking a drag of your own, your eyes not leaving him.
He shrugs, “I picked it up while in college. It’s a bad habit I go back to sometimes.”
“I see,” you say, “I forgot to ask, but what’s your name?”
“Tom,” the brunette says, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he offers a free hand for you to shake. You gently take it.
Despite the chill of the night, Tom’s hand is warm against yours. You both hesitate to pull away, but a shy chuckle shared between the two of you causes a natural break of grip. You continue to smoke and pass the bottle to and from each other, talking about this year’s notable events in your lives. You speak for a while before more personal details begin spilling. Like how much you hate your job and how Tom missed his co-stars from his last project. Or how you both hate being single during the holidays. The more alcohol that’s consumed, the more you discuss your lives. It’s only been an hour or two, but it feels like you’ve known each other forever.
A comfortable silence falls over the two of you. Tom looks over at you, admiring how your cigarette looked so natural in your hand. And how your hair fell perfectly around your face and how you swung your legs back and forth innocently. The corners of Tom’s lips twitch upward as he subtly moves closer to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He thinks you’re quite interesting and pretty- he doesn’t know why you’re still single when you’re such an amazing person.
You feel the roughness of his trousers against your bare thigh as you finish your final cigarette. You swish the remaining contents of the bottle around, deciding that your blurry peripheral vision means it is time to stop drinking. When you turn to offer Tom the rest of the alcohol, he’s facing you already, mere inches away. Your breath hitches as his eyes look into yours. They drop to your lips, and despite your intoxication, you feel giddy in your stomach.
“Can I,” Tom whispers, lifting a hand to your cheek, “Can I kiss you?”
You sit the bottle down on the other side of where you’re sitting, a drunken smile growing on your face, “Of course you can.”
Tom leans in, pressing his lips to yours gently. You inhale sharply through your nose at the intense feeling of electricity between the two of you. You can taste the alcohol on him when you run your tongue across his bottom lip, testing just how far he wants to go. Your hand reaches up and cards through his dark hair, bringing him as close as possible as the kiss becomes more passionate. Tom’s free hand grasps your hip, his thumb digging deeper into your skin the harder you kiss him. Your head swims as he peppers his lips along your jawline and under your ear.
“We should probably go inside,” you pull away reluctantly, but even in your stupor, you don’t want to get carried away and fall off the fire escape.
You struggle to push up the cracked open window, and Tom giggles at you as he effortlessly pushes it open for you. Both of you climb through, and your friend shakes their head at you when your feet land firmly on the floor.
“I had wondered where you ran off to,” they chuckle, “I see you’ve met my friend Tom.”
“Uh, yeah,” you smile, looking up at him as he stands beside you.
Your friend looks closely at the two of you, noticing your bitten lips and Tom’s flushed face, “Now that the party has dwindled down, you guys can chill upstairs where it’s quiet. I have a book collection you two would enjoy.”
“Gotcha,” you nod as they walk away to mingle with other partygoers.
Looking around, you notice the remainder of the gathering is in other parts of the apartment, leaving the living room and upstairs unoccupied. Tom grabs your hand, pulling you away from the kitchen to the hallway leading to the stairs. You pull him into another kiss, Tom giggling at your eagerness as he sways slightly. He walks you backward until you feel your back against the nearby wall. Neither of you would do this on a typical day, but the energy between both of you is so intense. Your hands move underneath his shirt, your cold palms making contact with his warm skin. Tom gasps into the kiss at the contact, and you scoff, pulling away from him and grabbing his hand to drag him up the stairs.
“Careful,” Tom says to you as your legs wobble. Meanwhile, he’s struggling to climb them as well.
After a few minutes of tussling and laughing, the two of you finally reach the second floor.
“So about that book collection,” Tom raises an eyebrow, catching his breath as he grabs you by the hips, bringing you close to him.
“Only if you really want to,” you look up at him, both your and his eyes glazed over.
“I do,” Tom runs his hands along your sides, his gaze heavy on you, “Lead the way.”
You walk ahead of him, pulling him into the guest bedroom, where the books do happen to be stored in a giant bookcase along the wall. String lights around the ceiling give a soft golden glow to the room as you approach the mass of books. Tom closes the door softly as he enters the room, walking up behind you as you trace the spine of one of your favorite books. Tom wraps his arms around you, leaning down to kiss the back of your neck gingerly. You melt into his chest, closing your eyes as he travels down your shoulder. Your dress has an exposed back, and Tom is taking advantage of it as Tom falls to one knee and continues kissing down your body. He delicately unties the silk ribbon holding the two sides of your dress together, pausing before allowing it to fall to the floor.
“Let me know if you want me to stop,” Tom says.
You turn around and walk to the bed, allowing your dress to fall behind you. Sitting down, you motion for Tom to come over to you. His eyes scan your face, avoiding your intricate and deep-colored underwear as he stands up. Tom stands between your slightly parted legs, and you move your hands to the lapels of his black blazer, pushing them open. He discards it from his arms and to the floor before pulling his t-shirt over his head. You try not to ogle at his perfect body, but your hands wander anyway. Up his abdomen and across his chest until you reach his neck, where you pull him down for a heated kiss. Tom lightly pushes you onto the bed, and you move to the pile of pillows to rest your head. He climbs over you, caging you underneath him. Before you can react, Tom pulls your legs up around his waist as he rests his body on yours. His lips hover over yours, his darkened eyes boring into yours much like they did the back of your head earlier in the evening.
“Don’t stop,” you say, crossing your ankles behind Tom’s back.
Tom attacks your neck with hot kisses and soft bites, your hand grasping the back of his head. As his body relaxes into you, his weight presses you against the bed, and you feel how hard he is. You lift your hips to lightly grind into Tom, and his soft bite into your collarbone turns harsh in reaction. He continues downward, slipping his fingers underneath the straps of your bra and sliding them down your shoulders. You arch your back so Tom has the room to unclasp the band and remove the garment from you. He wastes no time resuming his kisses on your sensitive skin, avoiding the areas you desire his kisses most. You gasp when Tom lets his hand brush against your breast, his thumb circling your nipple softly. A small moan leaves your lips, and Tom glances up at you through his lashes to gauge your reaction. He admires how your eyebrows crease momentarily in pleasure, so he circles his thumb again. You moan louder this time, craving his touch without hesitance.
“Please,” you sigh, “Don’t hold back either.”
Tom hums in response before dipping his head down and enveloping your nipple in his mouth, flicking it with his tongue teasingly. He rubs your other nipple with his thumb, simultaneously stimulating you. You whimper, heat from your still buzzed body rushing to your clit. Your hips roll in response, and you’re sure Tom can feel your dampened panties against his chest. He gives your nipple a sharp tug with his teeth before focusing on your needy core. He leaves an open-mouthed kiss on your clothed heat before removing your underwear. Still buzzed from all the alcohol earlier, Tom tries his best to be soft with you despite the pit of desire growing between you. You want him- all of him, and you want it now. And Tom wants you. Before you can speak, Tom’s warm mouth meets your folds, his tongue lapping at your arousal. You squirm from the sudden stimulation, but he stills your hips with his grip. A hand flies to Tom’s mussed-up hair as he plunges his tongue into you, his nose pressing to your clit. He inhales your scent, and it intoxicates him more than alcohol ever could. Shaking his head, Tom’s nose rubs against your clit perfectly as his tongue fucks you. Your whole body is up in flames, your fingers tightening in his hair.
You’re muttering incoherent praises as you ride Tom’s face. He replaces his tongue with two of his fingers, your relaxed wetness allowing him to slip them in easily. They scissor against your fluttering walls as Tom sucks on your bundle of nerves. Your fuzzy mind keeps you from hiding how good his mouth feels on you, and your moans grow louder. His mouth leaves your cunt abruptly before reattaching to yours, silencing you immediately.
“Gotta be quiet,” Tom huffs against your lips, “People are still downstairs, love.”
You wrap your legs around him again, grinding yourself into his still-clothed cock. He’s the one to moan this time, slipping his tongue into your mouth and letting you taste yourself. You unwrap your legs and work to unfasten Tom’s trousers, pushing them down his thighs. He kicks them off the rest of the way, along with his underwear, as he continues to kiss you. You reach down between your bodies and palm Tom’s length, to which he groans into your mouth. You guide his tip to your entrance, allowing him to comfortably push into you. Your hands grasp Tom’s shoulder blades, your nails lightly digging into his skin with every inch that enters you. You whimper in pleasure at him finally being inside you after longing for it all night. Tom bottoms out with a content sigh, also elated at the feeling of you clenching around his length after craving it for so long.
Your chests heave against one another, your forehead pressed to Tom’s. His enticing blue eyes meet yours as he slowly pulls out before slamming his hips against yours. You gasp, arching your back and letting butterflies swarm in your belly when Tom kisses the corner of your mouth. He fucks into you again, slowly building a steady pace. Your lips barely brush against Tom’s as he snaps his body into yours. Your buzz has now faded away, allowing you to feel him entirely sober. He sneaks his hand between you and presses his thumb to your clit, making you hiss at the sudden stimulation. Your head pushes against the pillows, exposing your throat. Tom lets his hand lazily wrap around it, not squeezing but instead holding it as he grazes his teeth on your skin there as he kisses your neck.
“Feel so good around me,” Tom says dazedly, and you feel his eyelashes flutter under your jaw, “So gorgeous.”
Your hand rests in his hair again, gently combing through his locks as he rocks into you faster. His weight on you, his thumb still rubbing your clit, and his hand around your neck seals the deal for you as he plows into that sweet spot inside you.
“Tom,” you moan, “I’m close.”
“Me too, baby. Me too,” he whispers into your skin, leaving soft kisses in contrast to his rough thrusts.
“You feel so good,” you mutter, your chin resting on Tom’s head.
Tom lifts your leg and places it on his shoulder, allowing him to hit a new angle inside you. You bury your face in his hair to deafen the cry that escapes you in response.
“Right there,” you pant, your hands desperately holding onto Tom’s hair as your mouth hangs open in silent pleasure.
Tom breathes heavily into your neck, using all the energy he has left to mercilessly fuck your weeping cunt. You feel your stomach tensing, alerting you of your impending orgasm. Tom chants your name as he firmly presses his thumb into your clit, causing the tightly wound knot inside you to snap undone. Your thigh clamps into the side of Tom’s neck while the other shakes against the bare skin of his sweat sheened back. The feeling of your tight pussy pulsating around him makes Tom explode inside you with a gasp. You grip Tom’s hair desperately as you milk him of everything he has, his thumb still not letting up on your clit. Another orgasm washes over you suddenly. This time it makes you convulse, your cunt gushing around Tom and dripping down your thighs as you cry out in pleasure.
“Fuck,” you gasp for air, Tom pulling out of you.
He moves down to your pussy, cleaning up the cum spilling from you with a hungry tongue. You’re so sensitive that your thighs slam into the sides of Tom’s head. He suckles your clit for a moment for good measure, making you writhe underneath him. You pathetically whimper when he pulls away, finally catching your breath. Tom returns to his previous position on top of you, his face buried in your neck. He wraps his arms around you, softly stroking your skin.
“Wow,” you giggle, letting your nose dig into Tom’s brunette hair.
“Yeah,” he smirks, “You’re amazing.”
“That’s all you, I’m afraid,” you say.
Tom hums, “I disagree, sweetheart.”
He rolls over momentarily, lifting the duvet for you to climb under. He embraces you again, holding you close as if you’ll disappear like some sort of dream. You wrap your arms around Tom’s, smiling as he presses his nose to your hair.
“I still haven’t put my finger on it,” you say after a moment of silence.
“Hmm? On what?”
“That something about you.”
“I guess you’ll have to stick around and find out, then.”
Can I get uh…. A social media au of Tom Blyth x fem!rockstar!reader? Just a tad bit of self indulgence, I guess lmao.
But in all seriousness, I ADORE YOUR WORK AND IT IS STELLAR!! KEEP IT UP AND DONT STOP WRITING 🥰☺️👏
Tom Blyth x Fem!Rockstar!Reader
social media au
sorry this took some time but hope you like it! 🥺i’ll try to post more now that i’m feeling better and have some time. please continue to request, as always, my inbox is open.
REQUESTS OPEN.
yourusername
liked by tomblyth, hunterschafer and 500k others
my life nowadays
hunterschafer my angel
↪️ yourusername love of my life when I kiss you again
lilygladstone are you blonde or brunette? 🤔
↪️ yourusername both 🤭I change my mind
paulmescal 🙏
↪️ yourusername glad to see you today brother
gigihadid a rockstar as always
↪️ yourusername love youuu 😘
nuriaavegaa had the time of my life tonight girl!
↪️ yourusername so glad to meet you finally!
↪️ user wait if yn and nuria met..it has to be through tom right 👀she was with him in btk
harrycollettactor awesome show!
↪️ yourusername thanks bud! invite me to your next rave soon
callumhood rock on! 🤘
↪️ yourusername always!
tomblythfiles
liked by userfan76 and others
tom spotted at a restaurant in la yesterday
user he looks so good
randomfan wasn't yn on tour in la yesterday
↪️ ynfan yes she was 👀
user I saw him at this restaurant yesterday and I think he was sitting next to a blonde
↪️user that has to be yn omg
ynfans this has to be taken on a microwave lmao
user y'all better leave them alone if they're having a date if they want you to know they're together they will
↪️ynfan exactly
yourusername posted a story
tomblyth
liked by mayahawke and others
paradise.
russelltovey hope you had the time of your life mate!
↪️ tomblyth sure did thanks man! 🩷
carmenenemmi well deserved rest after a long strenuous shoot!
↪️ tomblyth absolutely! had the best time with you and the crew
nicholasgalitzine ☀️
jonathan.anderson my darlings
↪️ yourusername love you jonathan! had to wear your newest pieces you sent me
lukehemmings have fun!
liked by tomblyth
↪️ user wait yourusername had a song with him last year there’s got to be a coincidence how they know each other
yourusername
liked by ellefanning and others
rachelzegler girl i want you and imma have you 😍
↪️ yourusername oh girl stop it 🙈
↪️ joshandresgarcia excuse me?
↪️ rachelzegler look away 😗
user damn yn your bobbies
↪️ yourusername you like my necklace baby? 🥵
↪️ user always
conangray okay beach girl!
↪️ yourusername missed you so much, you should’ve come! we should hang soon
↪️ conangray wanted to give you two lovebirds privacy dw 😝
user that’s got to be tom blyth her new man
↪️ user yn single era over
↪️ user hot girl summer!
lilyrose_depp my angel
↪️ yourusername that’s you honey
sydneysweeney she’s glowing!!
↪️ yourusername my sunshine twin i love you
tblythfans
liked by user and others
a now deleted story by yourusername with tom earlier today
user theyre so cute
user before anyone calls them a cheater they’ve both been single for a while; y/n broke up with her ex last year while tom has been single for several months
↪️ user thank you
user how adorable for him to come out for her shows
yourusername
liked by billieeilish and others
just got home from vacation but here’s my treat…new single out friday. get him back.
avantika SO EXCITEDD PRE ORDERED IM SAT
↪️ yourusername i love you so much so thankful for you my love
pairing: coriolanus snow x f!reader, coriolanus snow x you, coriolanus snow x nameless reader (no use of y/n)
rating: e (explicit, 18+)
tags/warnings: power imbalance, sex work/prostitution, degradation, smut, explicit sex, a little bit of violence, roughness, blood tw, hate sex, protected sex, handjobs, oral (female receiving), fingering, a general evilness for coriolanus snow is NOT a good guy. i hate to tag this as Dark Coriolanus because i think that's just who he is, but i will do so for the sake of this.
word count: 7.9k+
summary: Coriolanus Snow is always the victor in his games. Or is he?
a/n: this series was lots of fun to write and i can only hope that you all enjoyed reading this half as much as i enjoyed making it. i'll kiss you on the nose if you decide to leave a nice comment and/or reblog this, but if you only like it that's okay, too; i'll think of you fondly for having followed me on this journey regardless. no beta because life is hard but i did my best here.
part one | part two
The party did not conclude as much as it transferred to another location.
Tigris and her friends had begun to talk of a new nightclub some time after the conversation in the living room, and the idea whisked them away in their states of bubbly inebriation. They had kindly invited her along, with Tigris in particular trying to make a strong case, but she’d declined, citing early morning obligations. On the way out, Tigris had whispered to her that Coriolanus was too important for fun–but asked if she wouldn't try and help him have it anyway, being his old friend? She had promised she would and Tigris had kissed her cheek with warm affection before leaving. Not for the first time that night she could hardly believe that Coriolanus was related to the woman.
It was just as well for Coriolanus that they all left sooner than expected. He held the door open as they scattered out, delivering his charming goodbyes, but after they all had gone his amicable smile faded significantly and his shoulders slumped from the relief.
“Don’t you like them?” she asked, observing from the corner.
He wetted his lips, turning his head towards her. “Do you?”
“I’d say so, yes.”
“Of course you do. They’re fools.”
She wasn’t surprised by his turn of attitude. In fact, she felt more at ease when he was like this: transparently mean. It felt less frightening to know what she was up against.
“Even Tigris?” she inquired.
“Of course not Tigris,” he answered irritably. He pushed his frame off the wall and straightened himself out. “She’s just vulnerable to those types of people. It’s not her fault.”
“Those types of people?” As far as she could tell, they’d all been fairly well-rounded individuals. Their only fault had been curiosity, maybe overfamiliarity, but she considered that much better than what he gave off: Pomposity, contempt, a coldness when he did not think to mask it. Coriolanus could be charming–she observed this multiple times throughout the night, as he had conducted side conversations and finished off stories–but he never seemed to strike anyone as sincere. She could sense that, could feel it in the way they talked to him, not like an old friend, but like a teacher. He wasn’t like Tigris. She was lovely.
Coriolanus did not entertain the conversation any longer, though. He instead took the needle off the record that had been playing softly in the background for some time, stopping the music in the middle of a song. It was then that her thoughts spun back to her music box—how abruptly, almost violently, he had shut it when they were inside her room–and her stomach began to churn. It wasn’t nerves; it was far more complex than that. His eyes seemed to beckon her closer, to draw her in.
Despite what she had said, she had hoped maybe all Coriolanus had intended to do was flaunt her around the party, to show her the life she could have if she worked hard enough for it. That had been foolish; she was experienced enough to know with men like him it never stopped anywhere innocuous as that. He looked up at her like he expected a performance.
“Finally down to two,” she said, sitting her near-empty wine glass on one of his ornate bookshelves. “Anything else you’d like to do while I’m still on the clock?”
He laughed mirthlessly, working the knot in his tie. “Is that all you think about?”
She watched him as he had her that first night: intent, serious, a spectator to a life she could not quite imagine, nor one she exactly envied. “I don’t know—is there something else I should be thinking about?”
He eyed her as she moved closer, almost as if he intended for her to pounce. His grin was derisive. “I don’t know–don’t you have your own thoughts?” he answered brusquely.
“I do, but I don’t think you’d like them very much, Mr. Snow,” she retorted. She could sense that he was not entirely in a good mood now–could see it in the tense way he held his frame, see it in the hardness of his azure eyes–but she wasn’t sure he ever was. At least not in her company.
“I can leave as soon as you give me my money,” she added.
“Thought you said you weren’t an escort,” he sneered. She watched as his fingers undid his cufflinks. They fell with a clatter on the table before him, disregarded with an unfettered ease. She knew they probably cost more than most people could ever hope to make in a lifetime in the Districts. If she stole them, would he notice?
“I’m not, but you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’re well above paying for sex.”
“What? The game get too trying for you?” Coriolanus clicked his tongue. Though his words took on a more playful tone, his voice did not. “You almost had me convinced last week that you were a worthy playmate. So stubborn, so adamant. I thought to myself for a moment that I was lucky you were only a whore and not something as substantial as my classmate.”
Her eyes grew hard, despite herself. “So why are you trying to make me into something you so wholly believe I’m not?” she asked. “I don’t appreciate being left in the dark, Mr. Snow. In my line of business, it is best when all the cards are left on the table. When they are not I have the habit of leaving.”
He seemed to consider this as he opened the three buttons on his dress shirt. Already he had slung his suit jacket over the chair. “I’m not entirely fond of deception, either,” he said finally.
“I didn’t say anything about deception.”
“But I did. And you—“ he pointed a finger in her direction, “—know what you do is a bunch of thinly-veiled deception. I’ll tell you this: I think you could be an asset to me. You proved it tonight more than ever, with that charming little story about your Peacekeeper husband. You’re as quick on your feet as I’m sure you are on your back.” He quirked a mean grin. “But I’ll also say this: I also don’t like being left in the dark. If we are to work together the way I hope we will, I want to know your every thought as soon as you think it. I don’t care how banal.”
More than Coriolanus Snow liked conducting games, it seemed he liked winning them with an unfair advantage. Her lips twitched, daring to press into a grin. He didn’t find this amusing.
“You think I’m joking,” he gruffed.
“Quite the contrary.” She laughed, but it was more exasperated than mocking. “I think you’re serious. It’s just that you’re so goddamn predictable. You try to act above those men who come to me but you want what many of them do: power and control.”
The table that separated them lifted ever so slightly as he leaned his frame nearly all the way across it. “Of course I do,” his voice was rough. He was a frightening man when he wanted to be. She stumbled back. Anyone would’ve. “You do too. Don’t think I don’t notice just as much as you do.”
To make up for her temporary faltering and to show she was not intimated - though in truth she did wonder if maybe she ought to be - she leaned forward too, so close their noses nearly brushed. He smiled a wicked little grin that sent shivers down her spine. “You make me as sick as I make you. How's that for a thought?” she said.
No venom, no bitterness, just a fact. Her pulse quickened. For a flash, she considered the fact that he could very well kill her. That no one might know it. Was he capable of that?
She felt his breath fan across her cheek, warm, scented like roses. “I like you better like this. None of that doe-eyed, temptress act. Your fluttering eyelashes got you through the door, but only because I wanted to know more about what’s up here.”
She glowered. “You act high and mighty, Coriolanus, but I saw the tent in your pants last week. I know you liked it.”
Her mouth ghosted over his own, teasing, but he didn’t move; he smirked, brushing his nose against her cheek, daring her. Challenging her. A far cry from the Coriolanus of weeks past. His past words echoed in her mind, the gravity of them weighing on her for the first time: The game will be different next time.
She could not lose.
“You’re a petulant child, so afraid of what you don’t understand, contrary to what you say,” she whispered coldly, “And you want to fuck me so badly it terrifies you and you’re ashamed of yourself.”
He connected their lips; it was chaste, brief before he drew back. It surprised her, and she had to work hard to pretend it hadn’t. “You think that if I do, it’ll ruin me.” Another chaste kiss. “Maybe it might, but what of you? What if you like it? Could you live with yourself?”
Her eyes pressed close. The smell of roses was pungent but there was a heady scent mixed in with it; the sour-sweet smell of a clean sweat, of worry, of a long, long day. There too was alcohol. She had watched him consume a glass or two. She was sure she could take him on if need be. Certain that she had the willpower, the strength, to outdo him once more. “I’ve done far worse things and lived with it,” she whispered.
Snow’s fingertips grazed against her jawline. His eyes bore into hers when she opened them for him. “I believe that.”
Maybe it was meant to come across as condemnatory but it landed in a cushioned awe, wrapped in the quiet reverence belonging to a man who badly wants something he shouldn’t have. And he took it, his long fingers wrapping around the tantalizing column of her neck, pressing gently, an act of possession as his lips enveloped her own. There was no hesitation, no strain; he opened his mouth and she allowed his tongue to separate her lips. He tasted of roses, of wine, earthy and decadent, his lips plush and smooth as they moved hungrily against her own.
She was the one who pulled back first, searching for air, allowing his nose to bump against the tip of hers as he lurched forward for more. His eyes were closed but he still possessed enough of himself to laugh humorlessly at the impossibility of what was happening. It did feel like victory, albeit a small one. She kissed him again, hoping he felt the drip of regret straight down to the swell of his groin. Hoped he’d feel it for decades, that he’d remember this as vividly as she would: his thighs pressed into the wooden table, his fingers in her hair, on her jaw, on her neck, his want, thick and palpable - embarrassing - as he leaned closer for more, more, more.
He tugged her closer by the lapels of her jacket. There was no protest, not even the muffled sound of self-satisfaction as she crawled her way to him across the table. He held it down with his weight and watched expectantly as she came to sit before him. It was better this way, she told herself, so close. His pupils were blown wide, his lips red and bruised, whatever lipstick she might’ve still been wearing smudged against his. Even his carefully styled hair had begun to unravel. She could feel the full heat of his desire as her legs bracketed his waist.
“When I first began asking about you—“ Coriolanus’ fingers fiddled with the buttons on her blazer. She let him, leaning back on her arms, a present to be unwrapped. “—there was this man. Let’s call him Vitus.” The first button popped open, and he moved diligently to the next one. “I go to university with Vitus. He’s a wealthy young man, and arrogant, so it’s no surprise he’s on your list. Vitus spoke highly of you, but not kindly.” The other button broke open, revealing the bit of flesh before her breasts. He could see a peak of black, of sheer lace, and she watched as he reevaluated his expectations.
“Vitus,” she reminded softly. He shifted his eyes up. They were dark and unreadable. “Vitus—” he echoed, nodding. The third button slipped free. “—said you were a whore who got down on your knees for him. You sucked his cock so well that he shook. Said that was the best head he ever got, that you swallowed it down your pretty throat and left lipstick marks on his cock.”
Coriolanus’ lips twitched, as though this fact pained him. She furrowed her eyebrows, surprised by the way the words seemed to disturb him—as if he was angry that she had been with other men. He pushed her blazer open and draped it over her shoulders. His head drooped down and he took one of her nipples, which was clothed behind the sheer cup of her bra, and scraped it between his teeth.
She shuddered, one hand coming to his hair. Before it could, he pressed it back down onto the table forcefully. Her body got progressively more rigid beneath his.
“Another man said your cunt was tight.” He stared up at her with unfeeling eyes. “Tight. He said that word exactly. He was so vapid. He said you liked him. That you came on his cock not once but twice, and that you rode him until your knees gave out. And do you want to know what I asked them to get those responses?” Coriolanus pressed his lips gently on the place before her bra began. He began kissing downwards, right over the fabric. By her belly-button, he said, “If they knew who you were. Nothing else.”
He pressed warm, open-mouthed kisses at the waist of her pants. She pushed back the fawn of hair that fell over his eyes and he let her. Looking down at him, feeling the ghost of his lips, the presence of his breath against her skin, she realized he intended for her to comment.
“That doesn’t embarrass me,” she answered mildly. “I can’t stop what people choose to say about me.”
Coriolanus rolled his eyes. “I didn’t think it would. That wasn’t the point.” He began to undo the button on her pants now, too. “The point is that I wanted you to know—“ The button came loose and he carefully undid her zipper, falling to his knees before her. It was more reverent of a move that she would have figured he’d make. He nudged her exposed skin with the cold tip of his nose, letting his tongue trace lightly at the beginning of her transparent underwear. “—however well you did it for them, I want it twenty times better. This will be your best performance yet.”
His fingers gripped the underside of her thighs and he tugged her forward so abruptly, it caught her off guard. Her head rattled against the wood of the table. “Fuck!” she hissed through her teeth, her foot pushing outward to fling him back in retaliation. It worked; he jolted, his body falling flat onto the floor.
Her breath quickened, her body adjusting to the adrenaline now coursing through it. As rose on her elbow to inspect the damage, she frowned. Coriolanus sat before her, running his thumb against the bottom of his lip. When he inspected his fingers, he was overcome with quiet astonishment. They both were. There was a red droplet smeared on his finger, the blood fresh. The sight of it thrilled her. It did. She was not sorry to admit that. She only worried how he would take it, how he would respond. If he called someone, anyone important, she could be in trouble. What she did was not exactly legal.
“Coriolanus—“ she began apologetically. He rose a hand to shut her up. It was like blood on snow, the cream white of his hand smeared with the dark red of his blood. How ironic.
He rose to his feet, laughing coldly as he tongued the spot on his lip. It wasn’t terrible, but it’d be an injury he couldn’t hide. People would ask about it. She began to cower, drawing her knees up the closer he came to her.
“There’s no reason to be scared,” he assured, though the frenzied look in his eyes didn’t put her much at ease. His bloodied finger wrapped around one of her ankles. It melted in the fabric, but would no doubt stain later when it faded to rusty brown. This suit would be ruined. She tried her best to remain calm. She had survived worse. She was always surviving.
“What’s a little blood in a good game between friends?” he spoke levelly. The blood dribbled slowly down his chin and he let it.
She swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to—not like that. I just meant to—“ she sputtered. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “No you’re not. What did I say about us not deceiving each other?”
His voice was low, angry, his eyes piercing. She carefully watched his fingers on her ankle, anticipating his next move. They remained still, loose. “Maybe I deserved it,” he went on, laughingly. “What’s the saying—an eye for an eye? Maybe that just makes us even.”
Before the blood trickled down to his white shirt, she moved forward to stop it, as if this would absolve what she’d done—helping him. It was just a dribble, barely anything at all. He flinched, though, when she lurched forth to wipe it. He pinched her wrist between his fingers.
Coriolanus inspected the spot on her finger like he had his own, his lips attempting to twitch into something resembling a smile. It was unsettling, and she was happy when she pulled back and he let her. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her softly again. He let go of her ankle.
She stared into his eyes until they finally became penetrable again. After she nodded in quiet acquiescence, Coriolanus took her hand back. He looked her in the eyes, wrapped his warm mouth around her two blood-stained fingers and moaned. It was so lewd, so unlike anything she could’ve imagined him doing, and she couldn’t help but show her shock; she yelped as his tongue grazed between her fingers.
Her slack jawed reaction offered him the reprieve he needed to get them back on track; his lips slid off her fingers and he pulled her closer, guiding her into another kiss. She could taste cooper on his tongue more than she could his roses now. This was against her rules, anything with blood, but it felt hard earned, like a reward on her part more than his.
Coriolanus took advantage of the fact that her slacks were unbuttoned and slid his hand down between their bodies. He spread his fingers through the patch of hair she had teased him with on that ill fated night, when he had come so close to giving in to her, reveling in the fact that he had her now. And it did feel like exactly that: like he had her, like a bird in a cage. He had her beneath his touch, he had her wearing the clothes he’d picked out, in the house of his own making, wearing the very blood she’d drawn from his lip. Even the slight pulsating feeling that resided there still only added fuel to the fire that she’d awoken in him.
She was a terrible thing, and he saw it in her eyes when she’d kicked him back—that frightening jolt of excitement that came from the illicit. The fact that she hated him, that he could see it in her eyes as clearly as he had been able to derive anything else from her, did not bother him. It comforted him. She was no Lucy Gray. Not even throwing poor Lucy Gray in an arena to fight to the death could make her half as jaded as the woman beneath his touch. She had done worse and lived through it. Yes, he believed her.
The simple truth of it was that if she wasn’t a whore and destitute, he’d marry her in a heartbeat. While Livia Cardew was a wonderful choice, and one he was close to sealing the deal on, Livia wasn’t like this woman. He knew that there would never be a danger of loving either of them, that his heart could never open the way it had for Lucy Gray for anyone so cold and cynical. But he knew, unlike with Livia, he could delight in life with this one—that she could make him better, not for all her surrender, but the process of wearing her down to it. He pictured it: the Presidential Palace of his dreams, expansive and grand, and her lying in a four-poster bed waiting for him after a long day in red silk sheets, wearing nothing but this black transparent set. When he entered her it would not be a chore, or something given, but a game hard won—and he knew she’d like it too, that the defeat would fill her with comfort because she knew the depths of true exhaustion and it wouldn’t be like that. He’d seen the hollowed home of hers, knew she lived through the Dark Days just as well as the rest of them and recovered about as well as his family had. To lose his game would be nothing; he’d cloth her and feed her and fuck her full of heirs no matter what.
He wouldn’t want Livia to do this. She wouldn’t do it half as well. There was a vulnerability to this woman that Livia Cardew didn’t possess, a vulnerability she tried hard to forge into strength and almost succeeded at. It was thrilling to watch, to see her hold her head up so assuredly beneath his hard gazes, to watch the devastating power she possessed when she needed something badly enough. He hated her but she no longer disgusted him; she thrilled him. He’d be happy to play this game every day for the rest of his life—would be pleased to shed blood for something as giving as this pursuit. He’d done more for less.
Her cunt was hot and wet, and rubbing a single finger through it relieved him more than he would readily communicate. But he didn’t have to; he slumped into her, gave way. She gripped at his arms, let him swallow her breathy little moans into his mouth as he teased over her core with his fingertip. He knew that when he entered her, it would change something—ruin him, maybe, the way she’d forecasted—and he didn’t yet want to do it. A part of him would lose and would remain lost forever, and he wasn’t ready to contend with that truth yet.
He gathered her slick on his fingers and began to grind down on her clit. Slowly at first, letting her adjust to the feeling, then quickly, delighting wholly in the way she couldn’t help but tighten her grip on his arms.
Coriolanus was not a man who liked self-imposed ignorance. After returning from District 12, he’d begun to undertake his study in sexuality, with nearly as much ardor as he had his education. He and Lucy Gray never had done anything beyond kissing and heavy petting. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to—he’d wanted to wait until she seemed eager, ready, when they could be alone, away from the Covey, from Sejanus—but it never worked out. He understood it to be for the best. If they had he’d probably be tethered to the foolish notion that sex had to mean something. When he got back, Coriolanus took to the female attention that had been directed towards him for much longer than he had wished it to be. It had started with Clemensia, for he had known he could trust her for her frankness and he found her to be the prettiest.
He knew what he was doing now—had undertaken many hours in the laboratory of women’s intricate, often complex forms. Sometimes men, too, he wasn’t ashamed to admit. There was nothing he did not want to know—especially about himself. Lucy Gray had taken him by surprise because he’d made the mistake of being unknowing, of not having a strong sense of his character and a fluid purpose. He worked through that, saw himself out to the other side: he knew what he liked, who he liked, when he liked it.
Well, mostly. She surprised him, but that was perfectly fine because he was solving this too, wasn’t he?
Her nails dug crescent shaped indentations into the pale of his skin, nearly cutting enough to draw blood again, but not quite. He nuzzled against her throat with his nose, taking to the sting of it. He went faster on her clit, harder. “You can never just play nice, can you?” he husked. He nipped alongside the edge of her jaw, ignoring the ache in his lip. “You’re so fucking wet. You like this. Like my blood on your tongue and my hands down the front of your pants. Makes you feel powerful doesn’t it?”
She covered his mouth with one of her hands, her face contorting into a fine pleasure-pain expression that sent jolts right down to his cock. He could tell she was close, that she was going to come any second based on the way she was drawing her legs together—or at least trying to. Her grip was fierce on his arm and she was uncaring of the wound she had given him, pressing her palm to it. If she drew fresh blood, he wouldn’t be surprised. Wouldn’t mind. He’d lick it from her palm, too.
He finally relented when he felt she was getting too close, and he sunk a single finger into her, keeping his thumb pressed steadily onto her clit as he did. She moaned, loud and audacious, her entire body arching up into him. With his free hand, he gripped her chin hard and, shaking off her hand from his face, pushed his lips into hers. She came, her fingers tugging on his hair, her nails clawing at his arm, her tongue touching his, exploring, tasting, lingering.
And then she slumped against him, sated and out of breath. He smirked, though she could not see it. This was his victory, and a sweet victory it was. Here she was: docile, collasped in his arms, pleased because he had made her so.
When he felt she had had enough time to recuperate, he took his finger from the welcomed heat of her cunt and placed it on her tongue. It did not shock her the way he thought it might’ve—the way he would’ve liked. She wrapped her lips around it without a second thought, drawing it in deeper, her eyes latching seductively onto his. His cock twitched at the sight and at the feel of it, knowing that she was tasting of herself and without a hint of shame or remorse coloring her. Good Capital girls weren’t ever so bold. It took awhile to get them to do things like this, or to even admit that they might like the idea of it.
And she knew he liked it—that what had been plebeian before now seemed desirable as he explored and touched and undid. The state she found herself in was not an unprecedented outcome as much as it was a detour. She would still end up where she had intended to be in the beginning. Coriolanus was better than she would’ve thought he could’ve been, sure, but it did not detract from the fact that at his core he was fundamentally the same as the rest of them. That in his eyes, which burned wildly of passion, and his mind, which no doubt thought single-mindedly of success, was like that of a million others before him. Unexceptional in his perceived exceptionalism.
She took her mouth off of him, sucking her cheeks so hollowly around his finger that she made a sweet popping sound. Coriolanus was like a spectator. That’s the best way she could perceive him: as an audience, taken completely with her and her unpredictability, hanging onto the edge of his seat, wondering what on earth she would do next. His eyes followed her movements closely. She thought of his Games—the one with the tributes that could be bet on, and watched constantly—and she wondered how much different this was to that for him. How sick of a man was he? Where was the line, as he asked her? Did he know it?
She guided his hand down to her chest. This he seemed to understand, taking the lead, catching her pebbled nippled against his palm as he massaged one of her breasts. She shrugged off the blazer—which had scarcely been hanging on for a while now—and tugged down her bra impatiently, exposing more of herself to him. He took the opportunity to lean his head down again. Coriolanus ran the flat of his tongue against one of her nipples, while squeezing the other between his fingers. The nature of it bordered on painful but he never committed to it, edging her up to the slight sting of too much pressure and then coaxing her out of it, sucking, rubbing lightly.
His lips were glossy when he perched up to kiss her. She smiled. “You’re awful agreeable when your cock is hard—though I guess I knew it would be. I think that’s why you hate whores like me: we excite you to the state of pliability.”
He took her bottom lip between his teeth and tugged at the flesh. “You’d like to think that,” He kissed over the spot, tending it with an affection that didn’t belong to him. It felt borrowed, stolen, an amusing role he was trying to fill out as not to startle her with the true depth of his cruelty. “I hate what you do but I understand it, don’t you see? I told you as much before. You whores — as you so crassly put it — are like a small stain on a good piece of fabric: some you can hide better than others.”
She yanked roughly at his hair, drawing a hiss from his lips. But his grin did not fade. “What does that make you, then?” she retorted, “With your cock hard for me? Paying to finger me?”
She palmed him through his slacks and Coriolanus let out a shuddery breath, shocked by the sudden relief of it. His next response was amused, his voice lighter. “But you’re not like other whores are you? There’s a hierarchy and you’re at the top of yours. The finest quality. If there’s ever a cunt to sink into, it’s yours—“ His eyes rolled back as she unzipped his slacks and slid her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. Her fingers gripped tightly around his base and his nose brushed against hers as he leaned into her touch, his palms flattening on the table. “—fuck.”
With her free hand she propped him up, laughing against his shoulder. “Oh, Coriolanus,” she purred against the shell of his ear. His shaft was leaking pre-cum and she rubbed some of it down his cock, taking note of his response to her grip; the way the muscles in his neck fluctuated, how his hips bounced back and forth, how his breathing labored. Her teeth tugged on his earlobe. “You ought to get a condom, before you make a mess of yourself in your slacks. I can tell you want it so bad, Coryo.”
His hand gripped her throat. “Don’t call me that,” he said, his voice low—ringing serious, desperate. She didn’t listen.
“Coryo, please,” she begged. His cock twitched in her hand and his hand tightened on her throat, threatening. It was a warning. She wanted to ruin him—wanted him to think about her forever, wanted to hate her as badly as she felt she hated him—but she couldn’t let him finish like this. She needed him inside of her, the truest defeat.
“I’ll show you how good I can be,” she coaxed, her tugs on his cock becoming more lingering. From the tip to the base, slow and teasing. He was decently sized. more girth than he was length. She was happy he knew what foreplay was. “I’ll show you how good we can be, and that’s what you really want, isn’t it? To know that I can submit to you as you’ve to me? And I can, Coryo.”
His eyes pressed closed. She kissed the side of his mouth. “You don’t want what those men want, do you? Not even in a better form. You want more from me. Something I’ve never given them. Isn’t that right?” She kissed him fully on the lips now and he let her—even opened his mouth to accept her tongue against his. A man heavily seduced. “I bet you’d like to fuck me with nothing on, wouldn’t you?”
She knew what he wanted. She needed him to say it to. To admit it for the both of them. His eyes looked so light, almost crystal, when he opened them again. He swallowed hard. “You’re such a cunt.”
“You’re not paying me to lie to you. You’re paying for my every thought, isn’t that right?” She gripped his cock tighter in her hand and he sucked in a breath through his gritted teeth. “I think you want to tell me what you’re thinking so badly it’s killing you. You shouldn’t be afraid of it, not anymore. We’ve already come so far. A little farther won’t kill you.”
“Such a dirty wh—“
“You told me, you said however banal the thought—“
“I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything. You’re just afraid of it—the depth of your want.”
“Fuck,” he said under his breath. He rutted into her hand, the warmth of it beyond relieving after so much of nothing. She let him. As his hips pushed into her, into the table, she watched how the desperation took hold of him. Coriolanus' breathing became labored. She wondered how long it had been—if he denied himself this pleasure. He gripped tightly onto the edge of the table, drawing closer and closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic.
With an almost sickening amount of satisfaction, she let go of his cock. Coriolanus rutted into nothing with a harsh grunt, his head bouncing into her shoulders as he realized what she’d done and began to sag from the betrayal.
He gripped her face between his hands. “You think you’re so very clever—and you are—but you won’t win this. Not against me.” He squished up her cheeks, drew her closer to his face. His patience had thinned. “I’m not like those bastards you fool around with. Everyone knows you don’t fuck whores without a condom—even the most cunning ones. Don’t play the cards you don’t have because it’s beneath you,” he growled out before letting her go.
She watched with mild curiosity as he stalked away from her. It was an act she found equal parts amusing and hypocritical. He reminded her of a wounded animal, snapping at whatever it perceives to be a threat in blind rage.
“You like the game, don’t you, Coriolanus?” she asked him lightly.
He peered at her over his shoulder. “I have always liked the making of it more than I liked the playing of it.”
He had retreated back to his clinical tone; measured, calculated, clipped. She gathered her composure and slid off the table. He tensed beneath her when she wrapped herself around his torso, and his hands gripped onto her own. But he did not push her away. He was warm, still flushed from his desire, and she knew he did not have it in him to deny her. His cock was hard, leaking, and he allowed himself the room to want this. To imagine it. They were too far into this now.
She laid her head against his back and toyed with the buttons on his shirt. She slid her hand beneath the cool fabric. Her fingers explored the hardened expanse of his chest, dipped down to his abs teasingly. His heart hammered away in his chest—perhaps the most honest thing about him. His body began to ease, unintentionally, back into her own, and she undid the few remaining buttons on his dress shirt. He let it fly open.
Coriolanus turned around. He kissed her suddenly, and it wasn’t like before—not rough, but almost tender, all consuming. “I think we should go to my bedroom in case Tigris comes back. Sometimes she does that,” he whispered against her lips.
“Lead the way,” she responded. And he did.
Coriolanus’ room was luxurious, but sensible; it was obvious from the design it was a space meant to be slept in rather than inhabited: the four poster bed, the orange hued lamps, the heavy drawn curtains. Everything was the best quality, but it was plain, almost antiquated. Like hers, if she could have his money.
He didn't put much stock in how she felt about the room, though. When the door shut, they resumed their working relationship. He eased her out of the slacks and she relieved him of his shirt; he unlatched her diaphanous bra, and she tugged on his pants; he shimmed the underwear off her hips and he stepped out of his for her without protest, without thought. They were naked in seconds and seemed to understand each other better for it. She laid down on his bed and he stood at the foot of it.
His cock, which had begun to soften, sprung back to life now without aid. He touched his cock in lazy strokes, noncommittal but desperate. He did have a good looking cock, velvet soft and veiny. A terrible thing for a man so evil, so repressed, to be gifted with something like that. “No more tricks,” he demanded.
She opened her legs, the air of the room cool against her wet core. “No more tricks,” she echoed. Coriolanus devoured her before he touched her.
He moved methodically to the desk in the corner of his room. The condoms were stored in the second drawer, wrapped in gold. Before she could offer to help him put one on, he was already undoing the wrapper and lining himself up to the latex. She watched curiously as he did it. He was stately about it, not coltish or inelegant. In this way, he was unmatched. Men usually bowed to their desires but it seemed he led a disciplined existence. He was too important for fun.
Her stomach began to flutter with the anticipation of it. It was a betrayal, but not one she couldn’t contend with. Not one that she hadn’t before, in fact. This was how the body worked. This was work. This meant nothing.
“Are you wet enough?” he asked.
“I’d say so. I must say, you surprised me.” After a pause, she added, “You surprise me. Present tense.”
His smirk was unmistakable and predicted. “Isn’t it nice, not fucking men like Vitus? Don’t you see what a life you could have if you work for me?”
“Yes,” she cooed. Pliant, sated, prepared beautifully on his satin sheets. A dream he had long awaited and one he wanted so badly it would terrify him if he didn’t understand it throughly.
Coriolanus crawled between her thighs. He kissed her again, hard, urgent, and she responded in kind, sucking at the end of his tongue, tugging on his now unruly hair. His cock rested on the curve of her stomach, present, aching, seemingly growing harder by the minute. He worked hard not to rub against her. He refused to hump against her like some goddamn puppy who knew no better.
“Now,” she whispered. He nodded in assent. It was all done by his permission, by his standards. Her hand wrapped around his cock and she guided him to her core, but it was he who pushed in. He who teased the tip, he who slid so slowly that both of their bodies drew in a rigid sigh, he who bottomed out and he who drew up one of her legs to go a little deeper still.
He needed her and there was a certain release to being able to admit that. It was encouraging. It made him throb inside of her. They looked at one another, breathed in the scent of their sex, and it began. Coriolanus drew back his hips, then pressed forward. His movements were harsh but steady. He delighted in the way she looked up at him like that: like he was fucking her and she felt it, really felt it. And fuck, she was wet, so wet that he could hear it. His cock was a welcome entity inside of her; she clenched around him, seeming to urge him in, begging him to stay.
An unspeakable thing grew inside of him. The thing she had been right about. The thing that terrified him. His head hung and he watched the way his cock glistened with her slick, how it entered and exited out of her. “You’re mine,” he growled. It came from within and sounded frail. And it was. It belonged to a version of him he did not like. A version of him he could seldom control. He did not do this much anymore and it was for good reason. He had learned what he had needed to.
She gave a beautiful performance, though. Bleary-eyed with want, convincing as she raised her hips to meet him—like she might need this half as badly as he did. “Yes,” she answered. He hated her.
You hate her. You hate her. He repeated it like a mantra, his hips snapping into hers based on the unvaried rhythm of it. And he did hate her. She was a whore and she was a good one. His arms bracketed her head and said it. “I hate you.”
“Fuck,” was her response. Fuck. His cock pounded inside of her and she moaned. Her nails began to dig into his skin again. This he liked most of all. The nobility of having shed blood had grown on him since he had first killed a person.
He brought up the other leg. She gasped. It could not be any easier to push inside of her than it was now. God she was wet. He began to grind inside of her. She drew blood on his back. The sting of it was a relief. Penance. Fuck.
He didn’t bother with making her come. He thought about it but he felt she didn’t need to. Not again. He was paying her for this. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, not for someone like her. To come inside of her because of his own thoughts was one thing but to come because she did, because she was trembling with her own want and he liked it—
He came. His body went slack and it surprised them both. She wrapped her hands in his hair as he collapsed into her body, and he could feel the heavy thud of heart. Or maybe that was his. It was hard to tell where one began and one ended during these things. He hated that most of all.
Coriolanus drew out of her as soon as he could. He was not embarrassed. He was startled, but not embarrassed. It felt cleansing. But then he did something unforgivable. He did not leave her with her legs parted, did not watch with scorn as she laid in the filth of her occupation. Did not hate her because of what she was but rewarded her for it.
Her gasp was as genuine when his tongue parted her folds. He ate her out in earnest, his eyes watching the way his tongue made her react. When she played with her nipples, so unabashed about what she wanted, he put his mouth on her clit and sucked. He did want her to come. Because of him. For him. Her hips jerked and he followed along with the movements.
She tasted vaguely of him, but acidic, tangy, dangerous, too. Her fingers raked through his hair, and he entered two fingers inside of her. Clemmie used to like this. Livia would, too. He was good at it.
“Oh, Coriolanus,” she whined. He hummed against her and the vibration reached her core. She shook and tugged and pleaded, her hips doing their best to get away, but he wouldn’t let them. He felt her clinch around his fingers. “Coriolanus,” she gasped. She came once, twice. Three times would be too indulgent. This is where he drew the line.
He fell to her side with a heaving chest. They were both too warm, spent, surprised by the extent of what they had done to speak about it. In his mind he was building her a cage, and she was already searching for the key next to him.
After a while, he turned to her. She did not look at him but continued to stare blankly at the ceiling. “How much?” he asked her. It felt customary.
She wanted to say: More than you can give. She wanted to say: Everything you’ve got. She wanted to say: I will tell you no secrets, I won’t help you, I hate you. But she didn’t. She thought of home, what remained of it, and she said: “More than the first time.”
She was nothing like him but one did not need to be Coriolanus Snow to understand this: money was king, and he who had the most was the winner.
But she understood something far better than he did. She had taken something from him he hadn’t intended to give, and that was something money could not buy. His blood was beneath her fingernails. His cuff links were in the pocket of her blood stained suit. Tomorrow she would begin to make her house right again. Tomorrow she would tell him what she knew about the men she slept with—all of it. Turn them all against each other, hopefully, ruin the whole damn empire. Maybe she would steal something else, eat his food, fuck him again, see how far she could go before he noticed how much of his life she usurped. Would he begin to blur the line between performance and reality? She was sure he might. Already he had his hand on her wrist, tracing lightly against it.
He was the winner but now she was out for more than just a single victory. This was war and she was choosing her battles wisely.
Looking in his direction, she turned her lips up almost imperceptibly into a grin. Her eyes were soft, still teary from the sex. He seemed…at ease. Sated.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?” His eyebrows furrowed.
“This opportunity,” she said warmly. “I know it’s going to change things for me. I can see that.”
In his eyes it appeared: the propensity for being needed. He smiled, too. “It will,” he told her.
Yes, she was the victor and the crown had yet to feel heavy.
I’ve got a few Tom Blyth Billy the Kid/Cowboy fics coming, I’m super excited because I love the Western genre (minus the racism and misogyny and the guns lmaoo) but I’m excited to share them with you all soon!!!!!
The fics definitely do not follow history or lore of Billy the Kid, and most definitely is just hot cowboy Tom but I don’t feel comfortable writing fics for Tom, even as a cowboy character with his name, so we’re sticking with Billy and the way he portrays the character of him.
